


Fortune Favours The Brave

by vix_spes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-30
Updated: 2013-01-30
Packaged: 2017-11-27 14:28:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/663042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vix_spes/pseuds/vix_spes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During his twenties Greg Lestrade had always had a bit of a thing for the winger of Cambridge RFU’s first XV. He certainly hadn’t expected to run into the same man, still drop-dead gorgeous, in the lounge of 221b Baker Street twenty years later.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fortune Favours The Brave

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the following prompt at sherlockbbc_fic ; I can’t get the thought out of my head that Mycroft used to play rugger unbeknownst to Mummy because if Mummy had knownst it then Mycroft would have upset her. And Lestrade finally meets Mycroft and goes ... ‘Hey, I know you, didn’t you used to play with?’ and Mycroft hisses ‘Absolutely not’ and Sherlock knows that means ‘Yes actually’ and he is a lying liar and lies to Mummy and therefore should be mocked. But Lestrade always thought he was sexy. Even though he was much bigger and muscular then. Not the skinny little thing he is now. And then sex.

* * *

 

As Greg Lestrade wearily climbed the steps to 221b, he could hear voices ahead of him; John and Sherlock’s as well as a voice that he didn’t recognise. He didn’t bother knocking; John knew that he was coming and that the door would have been left unlocked. Stepping into the lounge he was faced with a petulant Sherlock, somebody that he was fairly positive that he recognised and the sounds of John tinkering around in the kitchen.

“Greg, is that you?”

He went and leant in the doorway to the kitchen at John’s question. “Yes it’s me. You still want to watch the game? I had a missed call from you but I was pretty much here already.”

“I can’t. I’ve been paged; they need me at the hospital for the night. If you know what’s good for you, I’d leave as soon as possible. It won’t be pretty when those two get going.”

Lestrade saw his opportunity. “Those two? You mean Sherlock and whoever that other bloke is. He turns up at crime scenes from time to time but never deigns to give me his name.”

John grinned. “Has he kidnapped you after manipulating CCTV cameras and offered you money to spy on Sherlock?”

“Yes! Probably about five years ago when I first met Sherlock. There was some other bollocks about being Sherlock’s archenemy. I told him to bugger off before I arrested him for bribing a police detective. Who the hell is he?”

“Why are you so interested?”

“I could swear that I know him from somewhere. Not from the crime scenes but from ages ago.”

“That’s Mycroft Holmes.” Upon Greg’s blank look he elaborated further. “Sherlock’s older brother. He’s something to do with the British Government.” There was a slight pause. “Or he is the British Government. I’m not quite sure.”

John passed Greg one of the chilled beers out of the fridge and walked towards the lounge. “Come on, I’ll introduce you.”

Greg followed behind, absolutely positive that he’d met this guy before but for the life of him he couldn’t remember where. He’d had the slight nagging feeling when he’d turned up at crime scenes but Greg had been too pre-occupied to waste time on it. He tuned back into the introductions just at the right time.

“Greg, this is Sherlock’s brother Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft, this is Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. Apparently you’ve kidnapped him before.”

“Now now John, you know I don’t like to refer to them as kidnappings. I prefer the term ‘friendly chat’. It’s a pleasure to meet you again Detective Inspector.”

As they shook hands, enlightenment struck Greg. He remembered all of a sudden why Mycroft was so familiar to him.

“Mycroft Holmes? I know why your face is so familiar. You played in the first XV for one of the amateur teams up at Cambridge for a few years didn’t you?”

“No, I think you must be mistaken. I’ve never played rugby before,” Mycroft demurred quietly even as Sherlock took more of an interest in the conversation, his violin finally lying silent in his lap.

“No, I’m sure I’m not. I definitely remember you. You played on the wing.”

“I really do think that you are quite mistaken. I’ve never played rugby; I’m quite certain that I would remember something of the sort.”

John taking a seat to enjoy the show went unnoticed as Mycroft’s hands started clenching around his umbrella.

“No, you definitely played on the wing for Cambridge between 1986 and 1989. I was propping for Rosslyn Park at the same time. None of us could understand why you weren’t playing for the university team. You were bloody good. I’m right aren’t I?”

“Absolutely not.” Mycroft’s response was hissed through clenched teeth, almost obscured by the sudden obnoxious twang from Sherlock’s violin. “You must be mistaken.”

“No he’s not.” Sherlock took the opportunity to enter the conversation. “He’s telling the truth; you only use that tone of voice when you’re lying. Does Mummy know that you used to play rugby?”

John’s lips were clamped together as he tried desperately not to laugh and Greg looked rather shamefaced at having sparked the whole thing while Sherlock looked delighted at the opportunity to rake Mycroft over the coals and a dull flush rose to Mycroft’s cheeks.

“She doesn’t does she? Of course she doesn’t. She never wanted us to play rugby because she thought it was too dangerous. We both had to promise that we wouldn’t play and you broke that promise. What’s more, you lied to Mummy and that’s even worse!”

By now, John was red in the face with the effort of trying not to laugh, Greg was wishing for the oblivion that lay at the bottom of several pint glasses and Mycroft looked as though he was praying for the ground to open up and swallow him whole. Desperate to disentangle himself from the situation, Greg started to make his excuses as he backed towards the door and the stairs that led to freedom.

“Well I’d er, better be going if you’ve got to get to the hospital John. No point me sticking around. Sherlock, no doubt I’ll be requesting your help sooner or later. Mycroft, it was erm, nice to er, meet you again.”

“I’ll walk down with you Greg, I need to be getting to the hospital anyway. Sherlock, try to eat something and when you’ve finished abusing your violin the toes for your new experiment are in the breadbin. Mycroft, are you coming with us now or are we leaving you at the mercy of Sherlock?”

“No no, I will accompany you and the Detective Inspector, Doctor Watson.”

If anything, Mycroft looked positively eager to get out of Sherlock’s presence. Outside, John hailed a passing cab and, having said his farewells, stepped inside and sped off down Baker Street. Gathering his courage, Greg turned to Mycroft with a small smile on his face, the one that his mum had always called his ‘charm smile’.

“Look, I’m really sorry about that. I didn’t mean to put you in an awkward position with Sherlock. Please let me buy you a drink to say sorry.”

“That really isn’t necessary Detective Inspector. As they say, ‘the truth will out’. Sherlock would have found out eventually.”

“Even so. Will you please let me buy you a drink? Just one.”

Mycroft inclined his head slightly. “Very well. One drink.”

(~*~)

As Greg bought the first round and they settled into a somewhat stilted conversation that became easier the more they relaxed, he was delighted to discover that Mycroft was rather witty and charming company. As a bisexual guy in his late teens/early twenties just starting his career in the Metropolitan Police, there had been a few advantages of playing rugby. That wasn’t to say he’d ogled every single guy that he’d played with or against, but Mycroft Holmes had been one definite exception. Both Cambridge and Rosslyn Park had been in the same league, so they had had a fair few fixtures against each other, and Mycroft had caught Greg’s attention the first time he’d seen him.

“Do you still play?”

“Don’t be ridiculous Detective Inspector, I have far more pressing concerns to take care. I barely get a few hours to myself and playing rugby isn’t exactly fitting for a man in my position.”

“Alright, I was just curious. Don’t play anymore myself, just run out every year for the charity match. I can’t take the knocks as easily as I used to.”

Four pints a piece later, both men’s tolerance levels were nowhere near what they had once been and they were starting to lose their inhibitions. Mycroft’s abstinence from pint-drinking and Greg’s tiredness had left both of them feeling rather tipsy. Unfortunately for Greg, being slightly tipsy meant that the filter between his brain and his mouth had a tendency to stop working properly. He squinted at Mycroft as he spoke. “You’ve changed a lot since then. You were bigger then.” He didn’t notice as Mycroft bristled slightly.

“I am considerably slimmer than I was, if that’s what you mean.”

“Oh no, I didn’t mean it like that. There was nothing wrong with you then, I mean you definitely weren’t the biggest guy on the pitch.” Greg was getting more and more flustered as he tried to extricate himself from the hole he’d dug himself into. “I mean ok, you were a big guy but you were fit. I mean, oh come on, you know what I’m talking about,” he groaned at Mycroft’s small amused smile. “Oh fuck, look, I always thought you were fucking gorgeous alright.”

“Gorgeous?” Mycroft scoffed. “I think you must be mistaken Detective Inspector.”

“You don’t have to call me Detective Inspector all the time Mr Holmes. You can call me Greg.”

“Is that short for Gregory by any chance? I much prefer that. Please, do feel free to call me by my given name.”

“Very well Mycroft. No, I’m not mistaken. I found you gorgeous and I certainly wasn’t the only one.”

“I think you’d better explain this to me Gregory. How could you possibly find me attractive when I was overweight, huffing and puffing my way around a rugby pitch?”

Greg leaned in, his chocolate-brown eyes twinkling as a small smile played on his lips. “I think you fail to understand the appeal of a nice arse in a tiny pair of white shorts.” As Mycroft blushed and looked away slightly, Greg went in for the kill. “And yours was particularly nice.”

Despite the fact that he had been drinking at a fairly steady rate and a definite flush had risen in his cheeks due to the alcohol, Mycroft had still kept his composure but now the cracks were definitely beginning to show. At Greg’s last words, his head snapped up and shock was clearly visible in his eyes.

“Gregory, I presume that the alcohol has gone to your head. I can assure you that no-one finds me attractive now so there is absolutely no chance whatsoever that anybody would have found me attractive back then unless their minds were addled. What?” The last was said rather self-defensively as Greg gawked at him.

“Bloody hell, did Sherlock get all the arrogance while you got sod all self-esteem? You may not be able to understand it but you’ll just have to accept that I thought you were bloody sexy then and you are now.”

As they walked out of the pub having drained their pints as the bell for last orders had rung, the road was busy with all the people who were being kicked out of the closing pubs and bars. One group of drunken businessmen were particularly obnoxious and didn’t really give a damn what they were doing, paying no attention to the people in the street. One of them was swaying dangerously, gesticulating wildly and talking at the top of his voice, his words littered with expletives, and just as the group passed Mycroft and Greg one of his flailing hands struck Mycroft in the back sending him flying. He stumbled, reeling from the shove, but was caught by Greg who steadied him against his chest and, in a move that, should it fail, he would blame on alcohol, slid one of his hands from Mycroft’s lower back to slide over the taller man’s arse and give it a quick squeeze. Mycroft’s eyes widened and there was a definite flush on his cheeks although Greg didn’t know if it could be attributed to alcohol or the fact that the oh-so-proper Mycroft Holmes in his pristine three-piece suit had just had his arse groped in public. Deciding to take his chance while it was there for the taking, he used the hand at the small of Mycroft’s back to press him even closer. He tilted his chin upwards and, before Mycroft had fully regained his balance, leant in and captured Mycroft’s lips. When Mycroft gasped in surprise, he decided to press his advantage, letting his tongue slide out to swipe across Mycroft’s lower lip before delving into Mycroft’s mouth as he finally started to reciprocate. He had honestly thought that he would be rebuffed. He certainly wasn’t complaining.

He pulled back just enough to draw breath as he moved them off the street and into the entry to an alley, pushing Mycroft so that his back was against the wall. He smiled when Mycroft reached out first, pulling Greg to him with eager hands. Greg’s chuckle was smothered as Mycroft sealed their lips together. When they drew apart again, Mycroft's eyes lips were slightly swollen and his pupils dilated.

“You were serious.” Mycroft’s voice was faint, almost breathy.

“Took you long enough.”

“I just ... I suppose I was slightly overwhelmed that you remembered me. It was over twenty years ago after all. The whole point of playing for that club was for the obscurity it would give me. I certainly didn’t expect this.”

“Does unexpected mean that it’s a bad thing?” Greg knew what he wanted, but he didn’t know if Mycroft wanted it as well.

“Oh no Inspector,” Mycroft’s voice was low and sultry, practically a purr, “as far as I’m concerned it’s a very good thing.”

As the evening had worn on, Mycroft had been assaulted by a whole raft of vague recollections from that brief period when he had played rugby and he was certain that he remembered someone from one of the opposing teams in the league that bore more than a passing resemblance to the man in front of him. The most prominent image that had flashed before his eyes had been at the end of a match, players pulling their shirts off as they headed for the showers, and his eyes being drawn towards a shorter man playing for the opposing team.

He arched up into the body that was sandwiching him in between it and the wall behind him. He couldn’t remember the last time that he had done anything like this, he couldn’t remember the last time he had wanted to do this let alone the last time that someone had wanted him. He couldn’t stop the moans that were ripping themselves from his throat as tongues duelled for dominance and by the sound of it, Gregory was no less effective.

Greg knew that he had to do something if he didn’t want them to get arrested for lewd and inappropriate behaviour in public. That definitely wouldn’t go down well. He didn’t think that he’d had sex on a first date since he was in his twenties and this wasn’t even a date but sod that.

“I don’t normally do this the first time I meet somebody but god, I want to fuck you so much.”

“Yes.”

Mycroft didn’t know who was more surprised by his answer; himself or the DI. He was about to take back his response when he shifted slightly, his leg brushing against a tell-tale hardness, and he realised that he really did want this with this man. He took a deep breath and spoke before he lost his nerve.

“My flat is a five minute car journey from here.”

“What are we waiting for then?”

(~*~)

Mycroft’s hands fumbled with his keys as he attempted to fit them into the lock. Co-ordination wasn’t exactly easy when you had an amorous Detective Inspector pressed against your back, hands roaming wherever they could. He finally got the key in the lock as calloused fingers found their way to his belt, scrabbling to unbuckle it without seeing it. They stumbled inside and as the door swung shut behind them, Mycroft turned the tables and slammed Gregory back against it. He didn’t waste any time, leaning in and kissing Gregory hungrily, his tongue demanding entrance to the other man’s mouth. As Gregory’s hands started to shove Mycroft’s suit jacket off his shoulders, Mycroft’s attention switched to Gregory’s neck placing kisses along the strong jaw-line accompanied by teasing nips to whatever skin he could reach that wasn’t hidden by the collar of Gregory’s shirt, even as Gregory was pulling off Mycroft’s tie followed by his own.

Greg’s head thudded back against the wood of the door and that was the point when he started taking a more active role. He pushed himself away from the door, propelling Mycroft backwards as he did so, his fingers fumbling on the buttons of Mycroft’s waistcoat.

“Could you have anymore sodding buttons? Where’s your bedroom?”

With some difficulty, Mycroft managed to extricate himself from Greg’s wandering hands before turning and leading the other man through the luxuriously decorated flat by the wrist. There were a few stops to toe off shoes and for Mycroft to practically rip Greg’s jacket from his shoulders and by the time they reached the bedroom, there was a trail of clothes littering the way from the front door. Once they were inside the bedroom, Greg spun Mycroft round to face him before literally attacking the buttons of his shirt, sending more than a few flying across the floor, even as Mycroft was copying his actions. When they were down to their underwear, he pushed Mycroft across to what was, a frankly obscenely large bed covered in sheets that, even from here, looked as though it was made up with cotton sheets of a ridiculously high thread count and duvet. He tumbled Mycroft back onto the bed, falling down on top of him, biting down on Mycroft’s bottom lip even as he stroked his hands down Mycroft’s sides before pulling down his briefs followed by his own boxers.

“Roll over, on your stomach.”

He pulled away slightly and watched as Mycroft did as he was told with only a few seconds hesitation, before raking an appreciative gaze over the miles of creamy skin dappled with freckles that had been revealed to him. He smiled as Mycroft wriggled slightly, obviously uncomfortable with the silence as Greg drank his fill of the sight in front of him. He placed a hand in the small of Mycroft’s back so that he couldn’t move from his position.

“Don’t move.”

Greg cast one more admiring glance over the body spread out in front of him like an artist admiring a blank canvas before he leaned over Mycroft’s back. Ever so slowly, almost excruciatingly slowly for Mycroft, he started scattering kisses across Mycroft’s shoulders, his tongue tracing lines and patterns among and between the freckles. He then moved onto placing open-mouthed kisses down Mycroft’s spine and over the rounded cheeks of his arse. He was under no illusions; neither of them were as fit as they were when they been playing rugby. Mycroft had lost weight although Greg quite liked the way that his lean figure had a softness to it where it had once been muscle; where Sherlock was all bones and sharp angles, Mycroft was all softness and delectable curves. He didn’t see what Mycroft was self-conscious about – he certainly didn’t have the defined abs that he had once sported and while he was by far the fittest of the other DI’s, the years of takeaway and much needed pints after shifts had taken their toll on his body. He continued with his actions, holding Mycroft’s hips down to stop him squirming as he planted kisses across the softly rounded cheeks and the line where the tops of Mycroft’s thighs met the curve of his arse before nipping the left cheek gently with his teeth.

“Have you got lube and condoms?”

“In ... in the bathroom.” Mycroft waved a hand towards what was obviously the en-suite bathroom.

By the time Greg reappeared in the doorway, his rummage through the bathroom cabinets having proved successful, Mycroft had turned back over and appeared to have lost some of his self-confidence. He looked as though he was struggling to keep his hands by his sides, rather than attempting to cover himself up. Greg simply couldn’t understand it. Mycroft looked absolutely delectable, laid out like a feast just waiting for Greg to devour him. Something that Greg had every intention of doing. Mycroft’s creamy pale skin was covered in a delicious flush, his hair was dishevelled and his lips were bruised and kiss-swollen. Just the sight of him made Greg’s cock twitch.

He crawled onto the bed, blanketing Mycroft’s body with his own and capturing Mycroft’s lips with his own briefly as he fumbled with the lid to the tube of lubricant. He gently coaxed Mycroft’s legs apart as he coated his fingers with the lube, before seeking out Mycroft’s hidden entrance. He slowly inserted one finger into the tight heat, pressing a reassuring kiss to Mycroft’s hip as the older man hissed slightly in discomfort.

“You ok? I’m sorry, I’ll go slow but you’re so fucking tight.”

“It’s ah,” Mycroft rotated his hips slightly, “been a long time.” He moaned softly as Greg’s fingers grazed that spot inside him.

Ever so slowly, Greg fingered Mycroft, stretching him open so that he could take Greg’s cock without discomfort. By the time he’d inserted three fingers, Mycroft’s lips were slightly parted and he was panting for breath as he writhed on Greg’s fingers. Without removing his fingers, Greg ripped open the condom packet with his teeth and clumsily rolled it on before slicking himself with more lube. Spreading Mycroft’s legs even wider, he slowly inched his way into the tight heat, stopping ever so often so that he didn’t lose control of himself prematurely. When he was fully seated in Mycroft he paused again, shifting his hips as Mycroft wrapped his legs around Greg’s waist, heels pressing against the other man’s arse, and drawing him in even deeper if that was possible. He was determined to make this last as long as possible but Mycroft was already pushing back against him insistently, trying to make him move. Slowly he started to move, rotating his hips until he found the right angle and then speeding up his movements until he was slamming into Mycroft. Their lips met in a series of messy kisses, full of teeth and tongue, as they found their rhythm together, Mycroft rocking back as Greg moved forward. The room was filled with the sounds of sex, Greg’s grunts and murmurs combined with Mycroft’s moans and whimpers. Before too long, they were both overcome with sensations, Mycroft coming, untouched, in between their stomachs and Greg spilling himself inside Mycroft.

When he had recovered his breath Greg pulled off the condom and, tying it off, dropped it over the side of the bed before shifting them both into a comfortable position. Mycroft lay bonelessly on his stomach, one arm draped over Greg’s waist, while Greg was slumped against the pillows. He should really summon the energy to go and find a damp cloth to clean them up so that they didn’t wake up all sticky and disgusting in the morning but he couldn’t quite summon the energy. He grinned as a sudden thought struck him. “I don’t suppose you’ve still got those little white shorts have you?”

Mycroft lazily turned his head and raised an eyebrow at the man lying in his bed. “I’m sorry?”

“I asked if you still had your rugby shorts but on second thoughts,” Gregory reached out and smoothed a hand over the swell of Mycroft’s arse, making the latter shiver slightly in delight, “I think I prefer seeing it like this.”


End file.
